


the falling apart of things on fire

by Anchoret



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Stitches, Whump, Whumptober 2019, Wing Gore, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 09:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20992526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anchoret/pseuds/Anchoret
Summary: When Aziraphale learnt how to embroider a cope back in the 13th century, he never imaginedthiswas what he would put his skills to, centuries later.





	the falling apart of things on fire

_1610, London_

“_Stay still_.”

The body under his hands freezes abruptly, unnaturally still. Aziraphale stares at the sweat-slick curls laid on the nape of the demon’s neck, wonders at the immediate and absolute obedience, and whether a snake’s sweat would taste bitter or sweet.

He never knew Crowley’s physiology allowed him to sweat at all. To his memory, the demon never perspired, not even when he was being held down and fucked the few times Aziraphale lost control of himself enough to allow that to happen. Usually with the aid of alcohol.

Crowley was sweating now; his skin was unnaturally hot, hotter than should be normal for creatures of a reptilian nature. Aziraphale felt his fingertips burning up from the contact alone.

He shook his head to dispel the image of Crowley face down in the sheets. The pearly-white skin in the moonlight; how the jut of a sharp hip fit into his hand.

“Hurry up,” Crowley rasps. Aziraphale itches to miracle him a cup of water. He was afraid of accidentally imbuing it with divinity, however.

Crowley must be aware of this, but he doesn’t say anything. He merely stays in the chair, slightly bent forward, the curve of his spine a naked, sinuous, infinitely vulnerable thing. Blood drips sluggish from the deep gash parallel to its left, under the scapula, crawling along the expanse of bare skin, along length of the fine-spun silk thread in Aziraphale’s hands, turning the entire spool scarlet.

The mahogany chair is ruined. The air reeks of blood and bourbon.

“Angel, please,” Crowley whispers again, smoke-thin. “I won’t make a sound, promise. I won’t move. I won’t ask for any more wine. Please.”

Aziraphale swallows, and pulls the thread tight, ignoring the sensation of cloth tearing through flesh. The gaping lips of the wound seal a gnarly inch further. Crowley doesn’t move.

When Aziraphale learnt how to embroider a cope back in the 13th century, he never imagined _this_ was what he would put his skills to, centuries later.

If only digging John Dee up from his grave could undo the damage. But what that loathed sorcerer had done was out in the world now, and could not be retracted. Knowledge cares not into whose hands it falls; the Enochian-engraved blade tossed in a corner of the room was evidence enough.

“Only halfway to go,” says Aziraphale in the tone he usually uses to recite a psalm. He says it as much to Crowley as to himself. The pained, labored breathing has ceased, but Aziraphale isn’t sure he prefers the silence. It leaves him with no way to gauge Crowley’s level of pain or consciousness.

By the time another quarter of the wound is sealed, Aziraphale feels for the shape of the wound, and finds a problem.

“Your wings, Crowley,” he breathes.

The demon grunts, but makes no movement.

Aziraphale clears his throat and tries again. The half-full bottle of bourbon off to the side is especially tempting right now, but he doesn’t dare imbibe. This is _Crowley’s body_, and it is nearly disintegrating from the occult blade. He can’t risk any unsteadiness.

“Your wings, my dear. Please let them out.”

A sharp intake of breath. Then a slow release. Aziraphale feels the wings coming from the ethereal plane before they manifest, and holds in the gasp when he sees that the blade had sliced through flesh to expose a pale, jagged flash of bone.

The edges of the wound is burned-seeming, oozing a black ichor that mixed freely with the blood. Broken feathers lay limp around the point of severance.

“_Crowley_! Your _wings_ -”

“It’s just one wing, angel,” says Crowley in an unaccountably calm voice, and for a moment Aziraphale isn’t sure who he’s more furious with, the unbelievable, insufferable demon, or the wretched soul who dared do this to his – to Crowley.

“Yes, and you could lose the ability to fly over this!” Aziraphale snaps. “You could lose your way into the ethereal plane, the firmament, do you have any idea, you could be stuck in one place without the ability to teleport -”

“I made it here, didn’t I?”

“_You could have been stuck in hell, Crowley_ -”

“Angel. _Angel_.”

Crowley is patting his right arm blindly with his right hand, without turning around, and jolting his left side as little as possible.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, blinks the tears back. There is a terrible, sore, painful sensation in the back of his throat. The last time he felt this way was centuries ago, in the drowned land after the Flood.

For a split second, Aziraphale wishes he’d done more to the man than taken his memories of Crowley away. Then he abandons the train of thought – it was far from angelic or merciful, and hardly helpful either.

“Aziraphale. Listen. This isn’t the first time my wings have been injured. I’ll be _perfectly fine_.”

The hand pats him some more, while Aziraphale stares in disbelief at the red, sweat-drenched nest of hair. He’s never heard a more illogical, paradoxical statement.

“But how in heaven’s name did you survive if you’ve…?”

“A difference in angelic and demonic anatomies, I’m sure.” Aziraphale can barely make out the slant of Crowley’s knife-thin lips from this angle, the lopsided smirk. “We’re a sturdy bunch, demons.”

_We. Demons._

“Right,” says Aziraphale. He is suddenly, forcibly reminded of Crowley’s nature in a way he hasn’t in – a while. “- Very well. But I don’ know if I’ll be able to close this completely, and I'll have to clean it first, which might hurt you further -”

“Just try your best,” says Crowley softly. “And it’ll be more than enough. Trust me.”

*

By the time Aziraphale finally lays the last stitch and snips off the thread, the candles have burned low. He grabs the bottle of wine, his fingers slipping on the glass once before he catches it by the neck, and pours the remaining liquid around the closed wound.

Outside, the night has quieted down. The sitting-room-turned-emergency-operating-room is littered with threads, needles, and bloodied pieces of cloth; Aziraphale’s fingers are slick with blood, wine, and cold sweat.

He doesn’t think he’ll miss the smell of bourbon for a while.

Crowley stands up from the chair in one fluid motion and promptly collapses towards the floor.

“_Crowley_!”

“Fuck. I’m wasted, completely done for,” says Crowley, grinning, as Aziraphale catches him by some miracle and wrestles him onto the bed, brought into existence a few hours earlier for this very purpose. Crowley’s skin has gone from feverish to clammy, almost ice-cold.

“You’re not drunk, my dear,” says Aziraphale. He tries his hardest not to think about whether the tremble in his own voice comes from exasperation, fondness, or poorly concealed grief. “You’re not in your right mind. Adrenaline, endorphins, not to mention, you’ve lost a large amount of blood.”

“I feel fantastic,” says Crowley, pupils blown wide.

“Just – try to sleep, will you?” Aziraphale pleads, standing up.

"You can't see the stars from here. At Golgotha, there were stars..." Crowley murmurs from the bed. His voice peters out towards the end of the sentence. Aziraphale stares at him, stricken, before shaking himself out of it.

With a thought, the room returns to rights. The blood-stained chair is sent to burn on the celestial plane. There are some things that can never be washed off, some memories that can never be effaced: whether on humans, supernatural entities, or mere objects.

The memory of blood, for example.

Certain events will always leave an indelible mark on the material and spiritual witnesses that surround it. Ground zero: all are caught in the blast.

Aziraphale thinks of his right knee, the phantom scar. Of meteors crashing to Earth, or some other destination. The intolerable heat. The falling apart of things on fire.

He douses the lights.

Crowley is laid in a miserable crumple in the sheets, on his right side. He’s shivering. Aziraphale crawls in beside him, and drags the sheets over Crowley’s bare shoulder. After a second and a thought, he puts his arms around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why did i write this instead of doing anything else when ive an essay and literally my entire life to worry about
> 
> who knows who cares anyway have some crowley whump 
> 
> crossposted on [tumblr](https://prestissimo-tempestuoso.tumblr.com/post/188285859755/the-falling-apart-of-things-on-fire)

**Author's Note:**

> For Whumptober 2019 on Tumblr, prompt no. 11 "Stitching."
> 
> _Oct. 18:_ Decided to break this up into separate works since I won't be filling for more than ten prompts.
> 
> crossposted on [tumblr](https://prestissimo-tempestuoso.tumblr.com/post/188285859755/the-falling-apart-of-things-on-fire)


End file.
